I enjoy buying gifts for people I adore. It’s my love language. I enjoy seeing the smile, joy, or surprise in the eyes of those who receive my gifts. I live for these moments.

There were times when people did not express how much they appreciated my gift, but I could see it in their eyes. It’s not just my wild imagination; it’s because I’m always confident that what I buy for others is exactly what they’ll love.

Sometimes I feel like my habit is a gift in and of itself.

Everyone appreciated my gifts and kept them safe for a long time. My friends, my mother, and my siblings all enjoyed using them, and it makes me happy when I see or discover that the recipient is actually using my gift rather than storing it in the corner of their cupboard.

The only exception was my father.

Whenever I bought him a gift, he kept it in a drawer. He never used what I gave him. I can’t even remember how many gifts I gave him because I never saw them again. I always give him something for his birthday or Father’s Day. I made sure to get him something.

I do not mean that he disliked them. He appreciated the moments he received them, but later on, they simply vanished.

Over time, I learned that he forwarded my gifts to others. And I only found out after witnessing it firsthand.

I gave him a very nice suit (unstitched shalwar kameez) for his birthday. My father never had it stitched. He gave it to my phupha (uncle) when he visited our house.

In our culture, men typically get unstitched shalwar kameez as a gift at relatives’ weddings or when leaving a house where they have been a guest. My mother constantly complains to my father about how he always wears the same old worn-out clothes, even when he receives so many of them as gifts; why doesn’t he get something stitched for himself?

On one Father’s Day, I remember giving him a very nice coffee mug. It was expensive. He kept it in his cupboard for months, but he never used it, despite purchasing numerous mugs for himself later on. Perhaps he did not find the appropriate person to whom he could give that.

On a professor’s birthday, I was considering what I should give him. I was busy all day, and then at night, I remembered that the next day was my teacher’s birthday. I got an idea: I stole the mug from my father’s locker, wrapped it in a gift wrapper, and gave it to my teacher. Thank goodness there was no “Happy Father’s Day” written on the mug.

My father didn’t notice it was gone. That day, I wondered if my gifts were not that important. I do not know.

I recently purchased four wall hangings featuring beautiful calligraphy and Urdu poetry. To be honest, I bought them impulsively because they were so beautiful and on sale. When I got home, I looked at them and realized two of them were the same, with my father’s favorite verse. I gave one to him, and while he appreciated and welcomed it, he quickly informed me that one of his friends had recently renovated his office, and it was ideal for his needs.

It saddened me. I gave him the second one as well. I didn’t like that he was giving that wall hanging to his friend, even though he liked it.

My father often passed on my gifts to my brother.

Last month, I visited Peshawar. I was walking around a famous market with a friend when she mentioned that there was a well-known shop that sold extremely high-quality menswear. She had purchased suits for her father and brothers from there, and her experience had been extremely positive. I went to the shop with her out of curiosity, and I fell in love with the colors and fabric. It was extremely inexpensive compared to Islamabad. The suit that cost 7000 PKR in Islamabad was sold for 3500 PKR there. I purchased a suit for my father. And then I realized he’d immediately pass it on to my brother, so I purchased one for my brother as well.

My friend, who was a Peshawar resident and spoke Pushto fluently, bargained with the shopkeeper, and he eventually gave us the suit worth 3500 PKR for 2800 PKR. I was overjoyed, and as I was leaving the shop, I realized that I knew my father would give his suit to any of his friends. So I purchased another suit as well. In short, I had to buy three suits just so that my father could wear one.

When I returned home, after giving one suit to my brother, I gave the other two to my father. And, you know what, my father finally decided to have one of them made for himself, so he went to the tailor.

Now I understand what the issue was.

When I buy a gift for him now, I buy the same two items so he can keep one for himself and give the other to someone around him.

This morning, I was combing my hair in my father’s room as he has a beautiful mirror on the wall. He had gone to the market to purchase groceries. Suddenly I noticed his wallet on the table. I was extremely frustrated to see that his wallet was in such poor condition as if he had been using it for years.

When I returned home today, I gave him a new wallet. He accepted it and simply stated that the leather was original. After an hour or two, I went to my brother’s room to use his bathroom because mine was occupied. I saw the same wallet on my brother’s bedside that I had given to my father just an hour ago. As always, he had not kept it for him. Obviously, how could he? Old habits die hard.

I’ve just sneaked into his room, and he’s sleeping soundly. I stole his old wallet. After returning to my room, I opened it. There were business cards, debit and credit cards, and only twenty rupees in there. As a devout Muslim, he usually picks up any piece of paper with a Quranic verse that he finds on the road or footpath and keeps it in his wallet as a token of respect. While searching through all of the pockets, I noticed an old piece of paper. I became excited when I realized that the old piece of paper I had just seen must be a talisman or some sacred paper. When I tried to pull it out of the pocket, I discovered it was the worn-out inside part of the wallet.

I just wanted to bang my head against the wall. Despite the fact that his wallet was in poor condition, he refused to use a replacement.

After all, I’m his daughter. I share the same stubborn genes. So I unpack the other new wallet I purchased today and transfer all of his belongings to the new one with my hands. His twenty rupees too. I kept his old one as a memory.

Not of his poverty. But of his generosity.

I now understand why he never used any of the items I bought him. Those weren’t bad. They were too good. He always gave them to others because he only wanted to give to those around him what he wanted for himself.

He never wanted to feel embarrassed in front of others because he didn’t have enough money to buy gifts for his friends and family. So he just used my gifts to feel better. To ensure that no one leaves empty-handed from their home. Those who received those things were always overjoyed with his gifts. He felt happier only by giving.

Now I know from whom I inherited this gift. I have been doing this since I was a child. To give others the same gifts that I would genuinely like for myself.

As Kahlil Gibran said, “There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.”

Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.